


The Seventh Day

by HoldHerTightAndSayHerName



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: (and a nap), Canon Rewrite, Caring Chloe Decker, Chloe makes Lucifer vulnerable, Episode: s03e20 The Angel of San Bernardino, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, If anyone can defuse Lucifer it's Chloe, Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) Needs A Hug, Nosebleed, Partners stick together, Sleep Deprivation, TLC, Vulnerable Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), many many eyerolls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28365189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoldHerTightAndSayHerName/pseuds/HoldHerTightAndSayHerName
Summary: A little rewrite of Ep. 03x20 - The Angel of San Bernardino. Since Chloe makes Lucifer vulnerable, what if sleep deprivation became unbearable (or even potentially life-threatening) around her?“Detective,” he pleads softly, “I can’t sleep.”Chloe gazes at him for a moment, torn between fury and concern. Behind the bone-deep exhaustion, the paranoia, the frustration, the self-centeredness, she can still see him—the man she knows and trusts. Her partner. All over his face, something that looks alarmingly like desperation. And… Wait. Is that blood?
Relationships: Chloe Decker & Lucifer Morningstar, Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 48
Kudos: 258





	The Seventh Day

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.” Lucifer staggers to her desk with a nervous grin on his face. “It-it is imperative that we go _now_.”

 _What the hell is up with him?_

Chloe takes in the unkempt hair, the small brown stains on his left cuff, the dark circles spreading like bruises under his eyes. Under the unforgiving fluorescent lights of the precinct, he looks even more terrible than he did a few hours ago.

_Haunted._

When he talked about a “juice cleanse” this morning, she assumed it was another metaphor, told herself he was coming down from yet another binge, but she can’t help but feel she’s missing something. She draws herself up and summons her most authoritative voice.

“It’s imperative that you sleep. You clearly—”

“ _I_ — _can’t_ — _sleep!_ ”

His hands slam down on the desk with each syllable, hard enough to make her small potted plant tremble with the impact, setting off all her internal alarms at once. Lucifer never shouts—well, not at her, anyway—and he just spat out the words with fury, like she’s suggested to let a child murderer walk free with a pat on the back. From the corner of her eye, she realizes half the precinct is staring. At least Lucifer has the decency to look sheepish about his outburst.

“Detective,” he pleads softly, “I _can’t_ sleep.”

Chloe gazes at him for a moment, torn between fury and concern. Behind the bone-deep exhaustion, the paranoia, the frustration, the self-centeredness, she can still see him—the man she knows and trusts. Her partner. All over his face, something that looks alarmingly like desperation. And… _Wait. Is that blood?_

“Lucifer, your nose.”

“Hmm?” He groans, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’re bleeding. Right there, it’s...” Cheeks flaming, she gestures towards his face. “Your nose is bleeding.”

“What? Of course not, I can’t—” Slowly, he lifts a shaking hand to his upper lip and looks down, considering the red-stained fingers with a frown. “Oh, bollocks.” In one nervous motion, he reaches for his crumpled pocket square.

“Wait!”

He’s just about to press it to his nose when she offers him a pack of Kleenex. If he was ready to turn his precious three-hundred-dollar square of premium Italian silk into a compress, he must really be feeling like death. He fumbles with the tissues, dropping half of them to the floor. A red dot splatters his shirt.

“Oh, my—” She rolls her eyes, pushes a non-existent strand of hair from her face and grabs his elbow, doing her best to ignore the inquisitive looks of their colleagues. “Come on.”

Striding towards the interrogation room, she opens the door and directs Lucifer inside. The soft click of the lock bounces against the walls, muffling the outside world. All she can hear now is the sound of ragged breathing and fingers raking through hair, like he just wants to rip his skull wide open and claw at his own brain.

“Detective, I am fine. We need to go n—”

“For once in your life, shut up.” She drags a chair out from beneath the table. “Just… shut up and sit down.” Oddly, Lucifer doesn’t even protest; his face looks chalky, like he’s about to pass out. He slumps heavily onto a chair with a deep, audible sigh, leans back for a few seconds and closes his eyes. “Not like that! Bend your head forward.” She crouches next to him and applies a clean tissue to his face, feeling where the nasal bone ends before squeezing the flesh between her thumb and index finger.

“I untherstand you’re ubhset, Detective,” he mumbles with a strange, nasal voice caused by his clogged airways, “but I can assure you, there are bhore effective ways to torture bhe. To choke on bhy own blood—”

“Oh my God,” she huffs, pressing harder, “working with you is like the terrible twos all over again.”

“Don’t bring bhy Father into this.” He squirms a little, trying to look as dignified as can be with a home-made tampon obstructing his nasal passage. “Although, in this insdhance, you bhay have a point, since he’s resbhonsible for—ow!”

“The pressure is supposed to _help_.” He throws her a puzzled look from behind the tissue. “What, you’ve never had a nose bleed before?”

He merely shrugs, a constant shiver rippling through his body. One minute goes by, then another. Silence stretches between them. With their faces inches apart, she gets to observe him from up close—his eyes wide and panicked like a cornered animal. He smells like a distillery, but she has to fight the urge to graze his jaw with her thumb. Instead, she grabs his hand, presses it to his nose, and moves back to sit on the edge of the desk.

“Now. Hold this, and talk to me.” She crosses her arms and gives him a stern look, just like she did when Trixie would throw a monumental tantrum. “What the hell is going on? What is… this?” She flicks her wrist in a vague gesture. “If you’ve got insomnia, there are tablets that—”

“I can assure you, Detective, _this_ —” he mimics her, laughing without humour, “has nothing to do with my melatonin levels. I am perfectly able to sleep...” He looks at the empty table with intense longing, like he _aches_ for rest—like he would like nothing more than to lay his head on the cold, hard surface and surrender. “But it is of greatest importance that I don’t.” He tears his gaze away and slowly rubs his forehead. “Not until we’ve solved this case, anyway.”

In a split second, she rewinds to the previous week, before he stormed out of the precinct and went MIA once again. _That is an excellent plan, Detective. I’ll just never sleep again!_

“Tell me you didn’t…” The sudden realization melts her anger, giving way to an overwhelming sense of foreboding. “Are you actually saying you haven’t slept for _six whole days_ ?” She grabs him by the shoulder and shakes, a little harder than necessary. “Lucifer, that’s _crazy_ , even for you!”

He scoffs, leaning back against the chair like he’s about to fall down.

“Of course, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“Oh, bloody hell.” He slaps his palm against his knee in frustration and laughs manically. “I told you, it's my wings! They’re back! My Father, he’s—he's manipulating me, making me do things that I would never do!”

“What? Like flying through the night, helping people like some rogue angel?”

There’s a reason extreme sleep deprivation is routinely practiced by the CIA—and the mob—as a kind of torture. After just one or two days, any normal person would suffer major drops in cognitive functions, followed by hallucinations, psychosis, a total break with reality. And for someone like Lucifer, with his history, his delusions of grandeur…

“Yes! Yes, exactly!” His reddened eyes widen as he lets out a snarl. “That is the only plausible explanation!” He sniffs, tentatively plucking the bloodied paper tissue from under his nose. “Either that or Linda’s right, and I’m suppressing pent-up feelings about you and Pierce, which is obviously absurd.”

An unexpected wave of sadness washes over Chloe. Why, why, _why_ does she still care? If he wasn’t such a mess, she would wonder if there’s a least an ounce of truth behind the snark. After everything they’ve been through, their kiss on the beach, her poisoning, their dance… To think of what could have been if… But no. Whatever words are coming out of his mouth at this point, she has to count them as the least reliable source of information. Lucifer is _out of his mind_ , and he may be a self-destructing fool, but he’s also her partner, and he needs her. She won’t take the bait.

“Listen to me.” She closes her eyes and counts to three. “Never mind Marcus, never mind your father; _you_ have been torturing yourself for days.” This seems to hit home—he stops fidgeting with his cuffs, and the tense irritation on his face falls away. “At this stage, it’s a miracle none of your organs have failed. Are you trying to kill yourself?”

“Immortal, remember?” he laughs dryly, running a shaking hand through his hair. “I can’t—” He pauses, blinks twice, and stares at her with an odd expression on his face, like something suddenly dawned on him. “—oh.” He rubs at his face and sits straighter, muttering to himself. “Well, that would certainly explain...” He goes to stand and pushes back the chair clumsily, swaying a little as though losing his balance. “I should go.”

Beads of cold sweat gather on his brow, and his face drains of whatever colour it had left.

“Not so fast.” She presses down on his shoulder, and he jerks back like a puppet. “If you think I’m letting you get behind the wheel in that state...”

“Detective, you can’t help me!” he protests with another sniff. “Quite the opposite, actually, so if you don’t mind...”

His words sting. She ignores them.

“Look, let’s think rationally for a minute. Let’s say—” she shakes her head and lets out a small huff. “Let’s say I believe you. Let’s say you’ve got wings that somehow turn you into a... _night sky defender_.” God, she needs another coffee. “A bit like _sleepflying,_ then?”

“You might say that, yes.” He speaks slowly, staring at her with distrust. “But—”

“And from everything we know,” she cuts him off, using her best Detective voice, “the ‘Angel’ only operates at night, correct?”

“One would assume,” he answers tiredly. “But—”

“Have you tried napping?”

Whatever he expected her to say, this probably wasn’t it. Or maybe he’s just too far-gone to follow.

“Trixie had episodes of sleepwalking last year,” she elaborates. “The doctor told us it only happens in the deep-sleep phase.” That’s what she remembers anyway, but he doesn’t need to know that. “So,” she soothes, “why don’t you… take a nap?”

“Detective, I—” he opens and closes his mouth. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

“Why not?” she shrugs. “Half an hour won’t turn you into a winged avenger.”

“Well, it—you,” he shakes his head, stammering, “you don’t know my Father. I-I can’t be certain...” His breathing is getting uneven, like stringing the words together is a physical challenge. “I see what’s happening here. You’re stalling!” He laughs, a single, harsh bark. “It’s Him! He’s trying to slow me down with your little—miracle shenanigans!” _Wait, what?_ She opens her mouth, but Lucifer is already jumping off his chair, pressing both hands against the table. “Detective, I’m going, whether you…”

His voice drops to a raspy murmur, and he starts swaying back and forth like a tree rocked by the wind.

“Oh, for Dad’s sake.”

“O-kaay.” Time to take action before he collapses in the interrogation room. Chloe moves closer, placing a firm hand behind Lucifer’s back. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Yes, f’nally! S’go to Hollywood,” he mumbles, “the Masquerade office, we...” The half-finished sentence floats in mid-air, and he gives it up like a bad job.

“Right,” she soothes. “Let’s just get to my car, first.”

They take the fire exit and manage to make it out of the precinct without being seen—she’s pretty sure Lucifer’s mojo is not operational at the moment, and she would have a hard time explaining why he looks as intoxicated as the drunks locked up by the LAPD. He shuffles across the parking lot like his Louboutin are cast in bronze, one hand flying to his face to swipe away the dark curls falling on his forehead. When they finally reach her car, Chloe takes his arm and opens the back door. The idiot still finds the energy to grin, and leans heavily against her.

“Love me some backseat action, D’tective,” he mumbles against her ear. “But m’afraid I’ll have to pass. Urgent business to—”

“Yes, yes, I know.” She rolls her eyes, ignoring the involuntary shiver running through her body, and pushes him forward. “Just get inside.”

It takes a bit of manoeuvering, but she manages to make him lie down across the backseat, his long legs propped up against the seat. She goes around the car to fetch a thermal blanket in the trunk—when she comes back, she finds him struggling to stay awake, with a panicked look on his face.

“No, no,” he whispers. “Can’t—”

“It’s a nap, not a jail sentence.” She sits on the edge of the seat and spreads the blanket over him, trying to keep her tone light. “I’ll sit at the front. Keep watch, or whatever.”

He groans painfully, like his attempts to form coherent thoughts are physically hurting him.

“Hey. Lucifer.” This time, she doesn’t stop herself, and her hand rests lightly on his cheek. “Lucifer. It’s okay.” She runs the back of her knuckles along his jaw, feeling his untrimmed beard rasp against her skin. “I promise I’ll wake you up in an hour. You have my word.”

He blinks and briefly licks his lips, never taking his eyes off her, with a strange expression on his face.

“Very well, Detective.” With a shuddering breath, he finally closes his eyes, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Don’t say... didn’t... warn you.”

His head sags against the seat, and Chloe watches as sleep washes over him like a wave, bringing him the relief he so obviously needs. In less than a minute, he’s gone, his body finally yielding to exhaustion. She allows her gaze to linger. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. The knotted mess of his hair. The softness brought by sleep makes him look younger, strangely vulnerable—a softness the world doesn’t often see. Especially not these days.

Very slowly, she extricates herself from the back of the car, closing the door as lightly as possible behind her. After rubbing her face with a tired hand, she slides behind the wheel and unlocks her phone, ready to begin her watch.

“Right. And on the seventh day...” An amused smile tugs at her lips as she looks in the rear view mirror. “The Devil rested.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! I'm completely new to the Lucifer fandom, but I'm sure I’m not the first one to be inspired by this scene... I hope you enjoyed my take on it. Special thanks to @wickedgoodbooks for her support!  
> Feedback is always appreciated!  
> I'm also on tumblr with the same user name.


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